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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081492">all the sharp and cruel things of the world</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstriker/pseuds/starstriker'>starstriker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fëanorian Week 2021, Gen, Happy Ending, Memory Loss, THERE'S the tag I was actually thinking of, also featuring: the ever present (remnants of the?) Oath, but character who sometimes knows they've forgotten things and sometimes doesn't, not quite sure what to tag this as</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:15:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,304</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstriker/pseuds/starstriker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, he can remember the burn of the Silmaril, why he has the starburst scar on his palm. Other days, he only remembers a light, and the pain. On all days, he remembers the harp that was either lost or given away, and remembers he cannot play.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elrond Peredhel &amp; Maglor | Makalaurë</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all the sharp and cruel things of the world</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All the relevant cws that I could think of are all in the tags, but please feel free to let me know if I missed something.</p>
<p>Thank you for reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His harp was lost long ago to the waves. Or so he thinks – he knows that there was a great flood, and that he once had a harp. Even now, he believes he knows how to connect the dots. Not that it matters, how lost it is or how it was lost – he could not play it now. Some days, he can remember the burn of the Silmaril</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>why he has the starburst scar on his palm. Other days, he only remembers a light, and the pain. On all days, he remembers the harp, and remembers he cannot play.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(Very, very, rarely, he remembers he might have given it to someone, as a parting gift. But these do not coincide often with the days he remembers he has sons, and so it seems oddly unimportant.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His sons are always on his mind. Aren’t they? He thinks they are, at least. He’s not sure how often he forgets them. Then he’s certain he never could. Or maybe he’s not sure if he had any at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He always knows he has brothers – or rather, he had brothers? Maybe just the one, with his red hair. There’s something about the color, he thinks, that he associates with his brothers, but he doesn’t know why. There were only one-two-three with red hair, after all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sings songs that he wrote. He sings songs that other people wrote. As the years pass by he can’t keep track which is which as clearly anymore, nor does he remember whether he’s meant to be singing a translation or not, and if so why. Sometimes he does recall that elusive </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he thinks he might be angry, if he could hold onto a feeling for long enough.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(For some reason, when he does remember to feel angry, it reminds him of other people. But he can’t even tell whether it's people he was angry at or people who were angry at him, or people who were just</span>
  <em>
    <span> angry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and before he can really start to ponder it over he’s forgotten it all over again).</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he remembers to watch the tides, for he once thought they were beautiful and now finds himself believing that they are again. For a long time, there was some memory that marred the sight of the pearly sand and lapping waves, the constant sound of rushing water, but it’s long gone by now. There’s something soothing about watching shells and pebbles being taken in by the ocean, disappearing into the cradle of the water. Deep in the belly of the sea, they are restored to new life, made smooth with all of their sharp edges worn away with time. Time, and water, and nothing else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if in that same place where all the sharp and cruel things of the world go to be remade if there is a gem of treelight, the light of which catches on the facets in the rock and the smooth shine of seashells, that is being worn away. If it has become part of the sand that he now walks on. When he does dream – and he does so very rarely – he dreams of something like that. If it is true, so much the better, he thinks, and as it so often does the reason for such a thought escapes him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Beaches fall into the ocean. Sometimes the land beyond them does too, cliffs crumbling away into nothing. He follows along with it, scrambling to higher ground until the ocean has finished its course of vengeance and then starts to sing again. Each time, it is a little harder to lift his voice into song. Each time, it feels as if the next time he tries, there may not be enough of a person left to sing at all. But thus far, he has produced a sound with each attempt, haunting sailors and fishermen alike. He stays clear of them all – he thinks that it is the oldest instinct he has, to hide away from prying eyes and that which might hurt him, or he could hurt in return. It is easier than one might think. He is rather hard to notice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually he comes to a harbor unlike any he’s seen before, or at least any within his memory – which even he, sometimes at least, can admit is scarce and unfaithful at best. But something tugs at his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fëa, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not in a harsh way but in a way that is much like the sea, like how the tides beckon the earth and sand to fall into their embrace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyesight is still keen enough to serve him well, and betrays him slightly less than his hearing (for every once in a while, he will hear voices in the distance calling the same name, over and over again, and he thinks it might be his but something deep ingrained in him told him he was not to go towards them). It is keen enough, specifically, to see a figure far away on one of the boats pause, and then run from the deck down onto the sand, and then towards him. He freezes too, wondering if he is meant to run. But no – he very much wants to stay, and can’t recall why he </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>run, so surely that means there’s no harm in staying right where he is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Atto,” they say when they’re finally close enough to look him in the eyes, looking like they want to fall into his arms but are terribly afraid that if they do so he might immediately shatter. Ah, but did they say </span>
  <em>
    <span>atto? </span>
  </em>
  <span>If he is their father, then this must be his son! But he thought he had twins – then again, he believes he is mistaken about quite a lot, and this is not the greatest of his errors. (But then, what was?)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There is a strangled intake of breath, like someone is trying very hard not to weep. He thinks of moving, but can’t bring himself to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come now, atto,” murmurs his son, his voice halting and shaky, but with a gentle hand on his shoulder helping to guide him. Although the weight of it is strange, for he has long grown unfamiliar with another’s touch, it soothes him to know that his son wants to help him. Don’t all children, in some way, wish to help their parents? Or at least, that’s what he thinks he knows (though he does not know why a part of that thought sits ill with him). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(No – maybe he does? Very distantly, there’s some part of the knowledge still ingrained in his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fëa. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Like scars left by a chain that wound around it for too long, the same type as the scar on his hand. That’s the only way he can think to describe it.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries smiling at his son to reassure him back, because there’s a faint tremor in his hand. It pulls at the dry skin of lips a bit uncomfortably, but the motion feels natural so long as it’s directed at his child. He receives one in return, and is satisfied that he’s guessed correctly at what to do. He’s truly relieved that he does have a son, because finding out that he had never been a parent at all would have felt like losing a child he never had. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad I got to see you again,” he hears himself say as he’s ushered onto a ship, and he is a little surprised he can produce words not sung. But he feels a little more grounded than he normally does, like the hand on his shoulder has made him a worldly being again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad too, atto. I’m glad you found me,” says his son, and they sit down together with their backs to the sea. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(Atto - father in Quenya)</p>
<p>A big thank you to my working summary of "bro maglor is gonna be so fucked up by the end of this" which was pretty accurate but entirely unhelpful in writing the actual summary. Also, a shoutout to my fourteen year old self, who basically wrote this exact fic but for an OC, and whom I stole from eagerly. </p>
<p>Thanks for reading! As per usual, please kudos/comment if you liked it – I like seeing the Pretty Numbers Go Up, and of course I love hearing what you thought about it :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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